Cherub: Reckoning
by Europiam
Summary: Tyler Rose has had an awful life, complete with an abusive step father. But when his step father is killed because he failed to pay his gambling debts, Tyler gets recruited into the shadowy organisation known as CHERUB. And so begins a chapter in his life where he finds something he never though he could. Rated T for mild language and violence. Please Review!
1. Chapter 1: Kapitel eins

**Cherub: Reckoning**

**Chapter 1 **

**Kapitel eins**

_(That literally means Chapter one, because I couldn't think of a better chapter name)._

* * *

I could think of so many things I could rather be doing right now. I mean, detention, _really?_ I could have skipped it, I mean, I really don't care, but then I would have to deal with the head, and my step dad, so I really can't be arsed.

So now I'm sat in a dull grey classroom, drawings from the year ones leering down at me from the wall, watching the dreary April weather as the rain hammered down outside.  
The door swung open as the teacher entered, and the heads of the me and several others dutifully swivelled to ogle the new arrival.  
He strode purposefully to her desk, and seated himself behind it, drawing the chair close to the vandalised wood of the desk surface, with the high-pitched scraping sound of metal on floorboards. Fishing out the list of detainees, he perched a pair of thick glasses on the end of his nose, and spread the sheet slowly across the desktop.

He made us recite our names, as if we may be impostors our something, and he made a point of glaring at us individually as our respective names passed his lips, as if we'd all wounded him personally.  
He finished the list of names, and looked up the grouping of people, and we all stared back at him dully, trying to communicate through our eyes how much we resented being here.

He cleared his throat with a sharp cough, and spoke in a smoker's rasp, which sliced through the previously peaceful air like a knife.  
"I guess you all know why you're here on this delightful Monday afternoon?" He asked wearily.  
Everyone nodded, before slumping back down into their respective positions, staring at object which before had been completely uninteresting. Everyone, except a boy with messy blond hair and a ratty T-Shirt on under his school blazer.

Smirking, he said:  
"Of course I do sir, and might I add, that's a fantastic look you've got going on there. The aged geography teacher I believe?"  
Sniggers swept the room, which were swiftly silenced as the teacher turned his gaze upon us all, before returning to the boy who had spoken.  
"There will be _absolute _silence, do you understand me?" he hissed, "Or do you need a refresher on the rules? Although why you would is beyond me, you should have memorized the after-school detention rule book by now, Ryan."  
The boy, Ryan, scowled as he was called by his first name, and he sat back in his chair, looking not unlike a spoiled toddler.  
"That goes for all of you," the teacher continued, raising his voice slightly, "There will be no talking, mobile phones, games, or music of _any _kind."

Groans rose from the assembled students, and several foreheads hit desks in annoyance.  
"There will be silence!" The teacher snapped, "Not one word, is that _clear_?"  
"Yes sir, Mr Ramsay, sir!" Ryan smirked, leaning back on his chair, his feet propped on the desk.  
"That includes you Ryan. Not. One. Word."  
"Okay," Ryan said, twirling a pencil between his fingers. Mr Ramsay's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he stalked back to his desk, pulling a small notepad from his breast pocket and scribbling furiously.

"Due to your antics Ryan," Mr Ramsay said as he positioned himself back behind the desk, "Everyone will have to write 1000 lines before the end of the detention. If any of you fail, it another 1000 for homework to be delivered to me tomorrow morning. Collect a sheet of paper everyone."  
The assembled group climbed to their feet heavily, and sauntered to the front of the class, shooting dirty looks at Ryan, who was sat in his chair, his expression sour. I dutifully grabbed my sheet, and turned so as to face my desk, and as I strode across the classroom, I saw a copper-haired boy _accidentally _hit Ryan in the back of the head as he walked past.  
"OW!" He yelped, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at the copper haired boy, who was staring coolly back.  
"Ryan!" Mr Ramsay said sharply, "I warned you not to speak, that will be another after-school next week."  
I shook my head as I sat back at my desk, and began rummaging in my bag for a pen.  
"And what would that be in need of?"  
I looked up to see everyone swivelled in their seats, their gaze focused on me like an escaped convict under a searchlight.

"Pardon sir?"  
"I asked why you would be shaking your head," Mr Ramsay repeated icily, "Or is your hearing similarly impaired Tyler?"  
"It was nothing sir," I muttered, avoiding his eye.  
"Nothing?" Mr Ramsay said disbelievingly, advancing slowly, so that he stood in front of my desk, "Was it really nothing? I've never seen anyone look so contemptuous about nothing before."  
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Mr Ramsay grabbed my sheet of paper and held it aloft.  
"And why have you written nothing?" he said pointedly, jamming a finger into the paper.  
"Sir, I, Um, I've only just got back my desk and-"  
"I don't want to hear your excuses," he thundered, "This is pathetic Tyler, you will join Ryan next week, _and _you will do the extra 1000 lines for me."  
He threw the paper onto my table and stomped back to his desk, while I slumped back in my chair, fuming at the injustice of it all.

Ryan was sprawled in his chair, an ugly sneer plastered across his face, and I roundly ignored him, the only sounds being the slight scratching of pens on paper, and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.  
The shrill ringing of a phone shattered the cool, still air of the detention atmosphere. Mr Ramsay looked up from what he was writing.

"Who's is that?" he asked wearily. Several of the students shot surreptitious glances at each other, before a brown haired girl spoke up from the back of the class.

"Um, sir? I think it's yours..."  
Mr Ramsay patted his pockets, and retrieved the device, which looked like it would have been out of date in the stone age.  
"Not allowed phones in school sir," someone called from the back of the room, and several people hid smirks behind their hands, whilst Mr Ramsay shot filthy glances at the entire back row, who all pointed at one another.  
Shaking his head and sighing, Mr Ramsay put the phone to his ear. A low murmur of voices started as he listened intently.

When the call ended, he turned back to face us all, and we all quickly straightened in our seats, and the hushed whispers ceased immediately.  
"I must go for a few minutes, I have an important matter to attend to upstairs. I trust you will all behave."  
Everyone nodded, the slow, sly grins spreading despite attempts to stifle them.  
"Even so, someone will be along in a few minutes, stay in your seats and _do not _talk."  
He scooped up a few loose papers, and, folding them into his pocket, he strode towards the door, swinging it open, and letting it slam shut behind him. As soon as Mr Ramsay was gone, Ryan let his chair drop to the floor, and straightened quickly, scuttling over to where the girl sat, who greeted him with a flirtatious grin.

I had stood too, and slung my bag onto my shoulder, after screwing my paper up and throwing it in the general direction of the bin. Stretching, I glanced across to the window, seeing that the rain was still pouring down outside. Sighing, I moved to the frame, and ran my hand along the top of the pane, feeling for where the catch was. I slid it across, and heaved the window open, letting the sound of the rain and the wind flood in.  
"Where you goin' Ty?" Ryan said, smirking.  
"Out the window. What does it look like?" I replied coldly. That threw him, and he stuttered for a response. The girl seemed a little more sympathetic.  
"Won't that be like, freezing?"  
"Probably," I said shortly, before I climbed up and over the sill, into the pouring rain.

...

I arrived home about an hour later, dripping wet. I practically fell through the front door, and sat in the gloomy kitchen, my jumper screwed up on the floor beside me. Faint sounds of the TV blared in from the other room, from where I could tell my step dad was sprawled, staring gormlessly at the TV, probably in a drunken stupor. Sighing, I slid of the stool, and quietly made for the stairs, tiptoeing past the open door to the sitting room.

"Why are you late?" said a surprisingly clear voice from the shadows, and I sopped shortly, and slowly picked my way through the squalor of the room, to where my step dad was sat. The foul odour of beer hit my nostrils, and I covered my nose, disgusted.  
"I asked you a question, kid," he said coldly.  
"I was in a detention," I replied resentfully.  
"Why?"  
"Maybe it was because my twat of a step dad wouldn't help with my schoolwork," I snapped. There was a sharp crack, and I stumbled back, clutching my cheek, glaring coldly at where he stood, breathing heavily.

"I will _not _be spoken to that way," he hissed, "Do you understand?"  
I said nothing, turning away and walking out of the room, scooping my bag off the floor.  
"Stupid kid, no wonder his mum dumped him with me," I heard my step dad mutter as I climbed the stairs.

That hurt more than I would like to admit, and, when I reached my room, I kicked the door open and threw my bag at the wall, before collapsing down onto the chair behind me, my head in my hands.  
"I must have been pretty shitty in a previous life to deserve this," I murmured to the blissfully empty and quiet room. The rain still hammered down outside, and the wind raged and howled like a frenzied dog.

Eventually I got to my feet, and began the half hearted search for a piece of, knowing that if I didn't do those lines for Ramsay he would eat me alive. I fished out the illusive white rectangle, and sat down reluctantly at my tatty desk. It was then that I realized that he had never told us what we were meant to write. I half growled with irritation, and racked my brains for something suitable. The words floated around in my mind as my brain attempted to string them together into a feeble sentence.

"Really?" I muttered, when I had finally formulated the appropriate grouping of words, "Well, it's better than nothing."  
And I set to work, except there was a small problem. I knew what I should be writing, but I couldn't seem to. The words floated around and blurred in front of my eyes, until they had formed a disjointed amalgamation of random letters. I rubbed my eyes, and knuckled my forehead, concentrating hard on the piece of paper lying smugly on the desk top before me. No matter how hard I tried, I could not write what I needed. I swept my arms across the wood in frustration, sending books, pens, paper, and several empty Coke cans tumbling to the floor.

"This just isn't my day," I sighed. Then there was a knock on the door. I frowned, no one visited us, it's not like my friends liked coming here, why should they? I hate it and I live here. From the sounds issuing from downstairs, my step dad was equally surprised. Listening hard, I heard his footsteps as they crossed the living room, and out into the hall. The door opened with a creak, and I heard I heard the cautious voice from downstairs.  
"Hello?"  
"Where is it, Mr Rose?" A cold voice answered. Even in those few syllables I recognized the danger and non-so subtle threat contained within them.  
"Look, I promise I'll have it tomorrow."  
"That's what you said yesterday," another voice, with a harsh cockney accent, not something you'd expect to hear in Gloucester.  
"I know, I know," My step dad stammered, "But, you see, there's this horse who-"  
"We've heard this before too," the first voice interrupted, "But you see, the men upstairs are getting pretty tired of your excuses."

Something glinted in the pale light of the setting sun, and there were two loud cracks, and my step dad staggered backwards, and then toppled onto his back. He gasped for breath, clutching the stop crimson patches which were blooming on his grotty shirt. The two men stood and looked on dispassionately, seemingly oblivious to my step dad's feverish breaths. And I watched from the top of the stairs, wide eyed, as one of the men glanced up to where I was, and our eyes met. He took in my thin form, the rings under my eyes, the unhealthy pallor of my skin, and the bruise that blossomed on my cheek.

He shook his head contemptuously as he backed out the door, and I heard him mutter:  
"Scum like him deserve it if they hit a kid."

The door slammed, and I cautiously made my way down stairs, to where my step dad lay.  
"Tyler," he croaked hoarsely, "Please."  
He reached for me with a blood soaked hand, which I batted away. His face fell, and the hand dropped to his side. Shaking my head, I reached for the phone, staring coldly into my step dad's eyes, and dialled the emergency number, pressing the nine button 3 times. It whirred and the dial tone pierced my ear as it connected, until a cool female voice sounded through the tiny speaker

"Hello, emergency services, what do you require?"  
"I need an ambulance, and the police too," I said, my voice quite steady.  
"What's the situation?"  
"My step just got shot," I answered, glancing to where he lay, his chest heaving, his eyes closed.  
"And your address is?"

As I recited the address, I saw my step dad open his eyes slowly, and saw that he was gazing at me with a peculiar expression. It was so far removed from the contempt and disgust he normally looked at me with, but I wasn't foolish enough to believe it was love. Desperate situations make men do desperate things. Cutting the connection, I tossed the phone onto the sofa and made toward the stairs, intending to stay in my room until the police arrived.

"Tyler," my step dad whispered, his voice weak, "Th- thank you."  
"You shouldn't thank me," I answered, eyes narrowing, one foot on the bottom step, "If I'd known better I would have let you bleed to death there."  
And with that I climbed the stairs into the welcoming shadows of my room, the distant wail of sirens screaming into the blood red sky, while the sunset closed another day.


	2. Chapter 2: A Family Matter

**Cherub: Reckoning: Chapter 2**

**A Family Matter**

* * *

I sat sullenly on the front step of what used to be my home, being blinded by the red and blue strobes of the Ambulances and police cars, a blanket I didn't need what draped around my shoulders, and I was clutching a cup of steaming coffee I had no intention of drinking. As various people hurried past, some shot surreptitious glances to where I sat, ranging from sad and sympathetic, to downright suspicious. At the centre of all the action, the eye of the storm as it were, stood a small wheeled on trolley, on which lay a miss-shapen grey blanket, the cold body of my step-father covered by a thin sheet.

I felt very little emotion, aside from a slight twinge of irritation that these was all taking so damn long. Seriously, just get the body in the back of the van and dump it in a hole somewhere, I don't really care. Suddenly, I became aware of a presence next to me, and I looked up. A young police officer was smiling down at me, a few strands of her blonde hair coming loose from under her cap.

"Hello there," she said softly, ""Would you mind coming with me."

I stood, tipping the coffee in to the gutter beside me and shrugging off the blanket. The woman's smile seemed to falter a little as she noticed my cold, expressionless face, but she still kept up an infuriatingly cheery demeanour as she led me to one of the nearby ambulances, its door waiting open expectantly.

"You're not really supposed to do this," she said, a little uncertainly, but you could probably sit in the cab, or you could go in the back with you-"

"No," I flatly interrupted, "I'll go in the front."

"Um, okay," she said, taken aback, "I'll go speak to the driver, but they'll probably want to take a look at your cheek first."

"My cheek?" I was a little surprised, in all that had happened, I had forgotten the flourishing bruise that was covering the left side of my face.

"Yeah, that.." I muttered.

The men came they did their checks, all friendly and equally cheery, whilst the young woman bobbed about their shoulders, until the driver got irritated by her and she was sent scuttling away.

"So," one of the men said, a tall black man with deep brown eyes, so much so they were unsettlingly memorising, "Can you tell me how you got this?"

"He did it," I said sourly, jerking a thumb over my shoulder, pointing to where the body lay, "And that's not all."

I lifted my shirt to show a criss-cross of bruises and scars all across my torso, and the men reared back, visibly shocked.

"He, he did that, all that?" The other man gasped, a shorter, plumper man with straw coloured hair, who's mouth was with agape in a perfectly comic "O".

"No, my other abusive step father did," I tutted sarcastically.

"Listen kid," the straw-haired man started, but the other man laid a hand on his shoulder, and shook his head very slightly to each side, and the words died in the speaker's throat. I had already lost interest and climbed into the cab, sitting on the far side, against the window, staring into the night sky.

…

We arrived at casualty about an hour later, and, as I clambered stiffly down from the ambulance cab, the body of my stepfather was wheeled away. I realised this would be my final memory, a grey blanket lit by glaring blue halogen lights. I smirked.  
"Mum did always say gambling would destroy you."

…

I awoke suddenly, my face a buried in a pillow. I lifted my head and stared around at the unfamiliar room. It was a bland green-ish colour, with nothing but a door leading to an equally generic bathroom, and a small ply wood desk,which was sat in one corner.

"Oh no," I groaned, letting my face fall back onto the bed, "Not a care home."

Weak sunlight filtered through the curtains, and a bird whistled a half-hearted tune outside my window. I threw back the covers, realising how little I was wearing. I shuddered at the thought of some stranger manipulating me whilst I was unconscious, and hurriedly scoured the room for some clothes. I found them, a neat pile under the desk; A black, collared shirt, blue jeans, and faded red Converse. I pulled them on, finding them a suspiciously good fit, although the jeans were a little too loose for my tastes.

Pushing open the door, I peered around the frame, into a grey painted corridor, with a grimy carpet leading to a rather rickety set of stairs. No-one was around of course, they should all be at school, so it looked like I had the place to myself. I crossed the hall, and descended the stairs, which led me to an open office, with a small curved desk, behind which sat a plump, frizzy haired woman of about 40.

She looked around as I entered, and smiled warmly.

"Hello dear, nice to see you up," she said, with what seemed like genuine affection. I felt myself warming to her instantly.

"Hello you too," I said, walking up to her desk, "Um, where am I?"

"El Burro House."

I smirked, "El _Burro?_"

"Yes," the woman grimaced apologetically, "Not a very good name is it?"

"You could say that," I said with a wry grin.

"If you want to wait in the front room, we've got one of our carers coming for you in about an hour."

"Okay, cheers," I said, turning away and making toward the arch, which seemed to lead through to the main hall.

"Oh, just a minute."

I turned, the woman was calling me back over.

"It's Tyler, uh, Tyler Rose?" She said slowly, one finger tracking down a vast list of names.

I nodded, and she smiled, "Just checking." She extended a hand, which I grasped and shook.

"You can call me Joline," she said.

"Joline," I repeated, it seemed apt.

…

The carer arrived in about an hour and a half, and found me sat with my feet on the table, idly doodling on a loose sheet of paper I'd found. Looking up, I examined the man. He looked to be in his late twenties, or early thirties. He was reasonably tall, and very stocky, obviously a man who spent a little too much time in the gym. He had longish blond hair, and an oddly shaped nose, which looked like it had been broken and hadn't healed properly.

"Hey," he said, sitting in the chair opposite, "I'm James, James Adams."

I didn't reply, and went back to my sheet of scribbled nothings.

"Look man," he continued, leaning forward, "I know this must be weird, and hard, for you. Your stepdad died. It's crap, and I know what it's like, my mum died when I was only 11."

I paused, and looked up again. James was staring at me quietly, intently, with an earnestness I hadn't seen before.

"Go on," I said.

"Well," James continued, "My mum see, she wasn't exactly what you would call, a, um, legitimate businesswoman. She ran a shoplifting empire, and I was probably the most spoiled kid known to man. Then, one night, I came home and found she was dead on the sofa, a mixture of alcohol and painkillers did her in."

He dropped his head for a second before looking up at me again, "That's why I know, why I understand."

I sighed, taking my feet off the table, "You can't know everything."

And I began to tell my life story, from the very beginning of my memory. James looked horrified at the end of it.

"That bastard," he breathed.

"Obviously, now you can see why I'm not too heart broken he's dead."

James glanced at his watch, and leapt to his feet.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, "We were supposed to be at your house 20 minutes ago."

"My house?" I started, but James grabbed my arm and pulled my out the door.

"Sorry Jo," he said apologetically as we passed, "Lost track of time."

"That's quite all right dear," she called, as the front door slammed shut behind us.

James hurried to a dingy looking van, with grimy windows and cans scattered all over the dashboard. I followed along in tow, until James threw open the door, and held it, before jogging around to the other door and sliding into the driver's seat.

"Think we may have to break a few speed limits," he muttered, leaning out the window as he reversed.

"Wouldn't be too bad," I replied, half-smiling, and James chuckled. He stuck the car in first gear, and drove away at a speed that would have most definitely been frowned upon.

…

The sky had clouded over when we arrived, and the grey clouds loomed ominously on the horizon.

I was staring up at the house, and James noticed my expression.

"Somethin' up?"

"No," I said, shaking myself, "Just, bad memories, ya know?"

"C'mon," James said, swinging open the van door, "Let's get started."

We entered the gloomy house slowly, as if expecting something to leap out at us. A sticky patch of blood covered the way into the kitchen, and the hall still stank of beer.

I picked my way through the litter and climbed the stairs. When I reached the landing, I could see my door, still ajar, my discarded lines and paper still on the floor. I reached for the handle, but suddenly reared back, as if I had been burned. It was then that I realised that I hated the idea of going in. I'd rather be buried alive with my shitty step dad than in that room, something about it disgusted me, and I don't know why. I hurried back down the stairs, and simply shook my head when James glanced at me curiously.

"Just, go up there, put all my clothes in a bag and bring 'em down," I said.

He frowned slightly, looking a little bemused, before he headed off upstairs. I heard him rummaging about, a few crashes and clatters as he kicked, or walked into, the cans littering my floor.

After a while, he appeared at the head of the stairs, one small bag slung over one shoulder.

"Dude, piece of advice?" he said, as he reached the hallway, "Clean your room a bit."

I shrugged.

"It normally is, but, recently, I just didn't see the point."

James opened his mouth to enquire further, but then obviously decided he didn't want to know, and so closed.

I shivered suddenly, and not just because the house was cold as hell. James was eyeing me, a little perplexed.

"Can we just go?" I muttered, avoiding James' gaze. James frowned.

"Surely you wanna take a last look around?"

"No," I replied firmly.

"Even so, maybe you sho-"

"There won't be anything," I snapped, "And if I had my way I'd burn the entire fucking house to the ground. Preferably whilst I'm still in it."

James stood, mouth agape, one hand limply holding the bag over his shoulder. I hunched my shoulders, instantly regretting my outburst. There was a long, awkward pause, in which James kept opening and closing his mouth. In the end, I made the decision to leave, and I stalked out the door, shooting one last contemptuous glance at the building.

"Good fucking riddance," I sneered, as I glared at the filthy windows.

James slung my bag into the back of the van, and climbed, and I could barely miss the suspicion and wariness in his eyes as I climbed in.

I had nothing to say, and so the rest of the journey back was in complete silence. I stared at the road signs as they passed, committing the landmarks to memory. It would be incredibly helpful to know the way back.

…

We arrived back at the house at quarter past 3, and, unfortunately, most kids were back from school now. I could hear the muffled sounds from indoors as they screamed, shouted and laughed.

"Great," I muttered, "Company."

I headed indoors, deliberately ignoring everyone around me, including Joline. Several people stared at me curiously as I passed, and I guess I must have been a surreal sight. A pale, sunken eyed boy, who looked like he could actually kill with his gaze. I'm probably the closest thing to a vampire all of them will ever see.

James followed behind, a few paces back. I could feel his gaze as it bored into the back of my skull.

Many of the residents called out to James as he passed, and he greeted them cheerily, before he followed me up the winding staircase. I headed for the room which I had woken up in, and slowly pushed open the stiff door. As I headed in, I saw in the corner of my eye that James had stopped, and pulled out a phone.

"Yo, Tyler!" He called, and I turned to face him.

"Hm?"

"I gotta split man, you alright here?"

"I should be."

"Um, okay then," He slid the bag off his shoulder and handed it to me, before he turned around and jogged down the stairs.

"I stood there simply holding the bag in one fist, before I returned to my room, slamming the door behind me.

…

_**6 Hours Later...**_

I was alone in the shadowy room, sat on the edge of the bed, my head bowed. In my left hand I was playing with a cigarette lighter I had found, flicking the flame on, closing the lighter, before flipping it open and striking a new flame. I was deep in thought, contemplating what I should do next. I knew what I wanted to do, but the consequences of the action would be huge. But, it would feel _soo_ damn good. Looking up, I saw my coat hanging on a hook behind the door. I simply stared at it for a few minutes, before I finally reached a decision. I straitened, and pulled on the coat, sneaking out the room, and down into the hallway below.

It took me 2 hours to reach my old house, and by then a light rain was falling. The lighter was still in my hand, and I gripped it tightly, as if was tying me to this Earth. I really, really wanted to burn the damn house to the ground, erasing all memories of my step dad, and to hell with the consequences.

I flipped open the lighter, and struck the flint. It sparked, and a small flame bloomed. I stared at it as it danced in the air, buffeted slightly by the light wind. I looked back at the house, then to the flame, then to the house again. My eyes narrowed, and, finally, I flipped the lighter shut.

"Not today," I muttered, turning away and burying my hands in my coat pocket.

And I walked into the gloomy horizon.

…

_**Many miles away. **_

James Adams sat in a blank, white room, lit by halogen bulbs. A single laptop sat on the table before him, a single window open. It was a video call, but the other person was hidden in shadow.

"And you say he is quite capable?" The figure asked. It was a female voice, and she sounded as if she was in her late forties.

"Yes," James replied, "He's isn't stupid, and he has a determination I've never seen before, not even in Bruce."

"You said he had... Problems though. What sort of problems?"

"He seems to have massive difficulty controlling his anger, and he absolutely loathes his step father."

"He was killed though?"

"Yes Director," James answered, "But I don't think that helped, if anything it made him worse. Plus, I think he may have suicidal tendencies, he said he would like to burn his house down, with him still in it."

"Interesting. Keep me informed, and keep watching him."

"Yes Director," James replied, and he closed the laptop, so that the only sound was the slight whirr of the air conditioning, and the rain hammering down outside.


End file.
